


pencil sketch

by marginaliana



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Episode: c01e064 The Frigid Doom, Gen, The Feywild, spoilers up to mid-ep 64
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:47:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25208719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: Before he slept, Percy sat on the edge of his bed and flipped through his sketchbook.
Relationships: Percival "Percy" Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III & Vox Machina
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	pencil sketch

Before he slept, Percy sat on the edge of his bed and flipped through his sketchbook. It was all there – the forest, the ruins, the flowers. Grasses rolling in the wind. Garmelie, sly and charming in the most literal sense. The door of the mansion stark and square against the endless dusk sky. 

He might have lost this. For a few long, horrible moments he _had_ lost this. Something he'd been dreaming of his whole life, one single precious thing from his childhood that hadn't been torn away and slashed and broken. 

His heart ached. Of course he would have deserved it – whatever pain there was, he deserved. He'd brought enough evil into this world to last a lifetime of penance and beyond. But the Feywild… 

It was an ungrateful thought. He had so much to be thankful for. His friends, his city, Cassandra. The completion of this part of their mission. That should be enough. 

But there was the look on Syldor's face when Percy had told him about the title – the look on _Vex's_ face. The moment when he'd handed over the piece of lintel crest and felt the fulfillment of the deal shimmer across his skin. Grass going flushed under his words. The pixies, horrible beautiful little things. Grog stupidly letting himself be petrified. The pride swelling within him as Vex refused Sondur her heart.

He thought about Scanlan and the memory spell. All the things Scanlan could have done with that spell, all the things he could have given Percy, and he'd chosen something false. He'd chosen _that_.

Percy didn't want to remember what it was to hate someone. He was done with hate – he'd felt nothing else for years and look where that had gotten him. But now, looking at his careful, soft charcoal drawing of the Gilded Run, his chest felt full of it, thick and dark and heavy. Familiar.

There was smoke on his fingertips. Percy shoved the sketchbook away from himself, hands shaking. He looked upwards and focused on breathing steadily. 

In one corner of his bedroom ceiling there was a pock mark, a remnant of one of his first experiments before his parents gave him the workshop just to keep him from setting fire to his sheets accidentally.

One small thing from his childhood, still there, unchanged.

He took a deep breath, and then another. When the smoke had dissipated into nothingness he reached for his sketchbook again and turned to the last page. He made a note in tiny, light script, written in the code that he'd invented for himself as a child. Anyone else looking through the book would be hard pressed to see it, let alone read it. But if he lost memory again, he'd find this someday. It didn't say much, but it said the most important thing.

As for Scanlan… the next time they were in the mansion Percy would put frogs in his bed. That would be revenge enough, and one he could stomach, besides.


End file.
